Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“Fair enough, but for the record, I have not decided my position on Poland personally. It’s a difficult question,” Strelyenko clarified.

“For some of us, maybe,” I remarked with a sneer.

“Yes, and that’s why we have dialogue,” he replied to my youthful disgust.

“Oh, yes, dialogue, like the kind going on now in Grozny with rocket launchers and artillery?” I rebuked him.

“It was the Chechens who refused to talk and took up arms and blockaded the province. They are violating the rights of Russian citizens enforcing their muslim traditions on people who are not muslims. Those people have the right to be Christians if they choose and this must be protected. The President will clean this up quickly with a strong police action and bring law and order back to Chechnya after too many years of letting the criminals and mafia take over the local economy there.” Strelyenko’s reply made me rethink my position.

“So, this is a fight against criminality in your mind, and not the suppression of national and ethnic identity?” I asked with some unsureness.

“Yes, and the President would do good to use the army to clean up Moscow as well when he is done. The criminals from Grozny have moved into Moscow trying to secure their position to control different industries and trade. A gang war has erupted in Moscow and the Chechens are in the middle of it, but the government needs to act now against all the mafia groups in Russia, not just the Chechen thieves. These groups are the single most dangerous threat to Russia’s future. The people must get together now and demand the President takes action against the profiteers and thieves who are robbing our country blind of our God granted resources and territory!” he said while slapping his table with his open palm, rather worked up.

Somehow, from between the lines of Strelyenko’s extreme nationalistic rhetoric I concluded that his call to action for the long-term health of Russia and its citizens whether it was in Chechnya, Moscow or Siberia wasn’t too far off the mark.

Stelyenko didn’t stop, he continued slapping his desk top. “Law and order has to be restored! If not, then those ready to use violence to trump the rule of law could stunt the future of our entire country for good! It must be stamped out!”

On leaving Strenlyenko’s office I bumped into Dean Karamzin in the hallway and he asked me to walk with him to his office. He took his chair behind his desk while I stood at attention across the desk from him.

“Mr. Turner, as you are a student, an observer of politics, can I invite you to the first plenum of The Left Front party of Nizhniy Novgorod? Purely as a guest and observer of course.” The Dean proclaimed in his usual blustery manner.

“A new party?” I asked intrigued.

“Oh yes, new parties in Russia are forming every day. Mostly they are unprofessional, built on demagoguery and those wanting to throw out all Jews, create the Soviet Union again but without the black republics,” he said off hand.

“The black republics?” I asked unsure of the reference.

“Yes, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan,” he explained.

“Funny because in English we call that area the Caucasian republics, which means white.” I explained from a linguistic perspective.

“Well, they’re not my words, they’re the words of that nut in Moscow, Zhilanskiy. You know of him?’

I nodded my head solemnly.

He says anything to get his votes for the new Russian Duma,” the Dean showed his disgust with a brush of his hand through the air. “But the Left Front Party of Nizhniy Novgorod is a group of real thinkers.”

“Oh, we have the nouveau bourgouise and the nouveau intelligentia coming back?” I smiled at the irony.

“Mr. Turner, you surprise me with your knowledge of the communist rhetoric,” the Dean suddenly said very seriously.

“Sorry, I will try to be less skeptical of today’s Russia,” I replied humbly.

“Being skeptical in Russia keeps you healthy and alive!” he declared with an amused look on his face.

“So, the new intelligentia?” I said bringing us back on point.

“The Left Front is a group of local academics who want to have an influence in the local and provincial government. This is not a national party, well maybe not yet,” he explained.

“Left Front? Are they specifically liberal, like the Yeltsin and Gaidar camps?” I inquired.

“No, they are not particularly politically oriented. The Left Front is a reference to a famous battle during the war in defence of the Volga region. No right or left-wing politics involved.”

“Are you a member of it too then?” I pushed for more details.

“No, but I am advising the party how to create a meaningful manifesto and will be the chairman at the plenum. You are very welcome to attend and listen as my guest.” From his perspective, he was bestowing on me a great honour.

“Thank you, I would be honored,” I said politely.

The Dean gave me a mono-coloured flyer printed on rough grey paper that looked as if it could have been from the promoters of the 1917 communists’ traveling revival show. It seemed to me that so much of the administration and records keeping could have been the same before the revolution, with the exception of the fax machine in Arkadiy’s office at Gagarin street. The Dean’s telephone buzzed on his desk as we shook hands. He bellowed ‘halloah’ into the handset as I pulled the door closed behind me and made a mental note for Friday afternoon’s event.

After a few days had passed since the assassination of Dmitri Bolshakov, Yulia had mostly recovered her composure and started going to classes again, but something still wasn’t quite the same. A spark in her eyes had gone out or was just very dim, so I was surprised when she accepted my invitation to come with me to observe the plenum meeting of the Left Front Party. When we arrived at the city administration offices in the kremlin for the party conference, the banquet room was already filled with more than fifty men and a few women. We had to choose a place to sit in the left back of the room. There was nobody to take our coats and hats at the wardrobe, so we carried our shapkas and coats over our arms and laid them over the back of a free chair next to us. The inlaid wooden floor of the banquet hall creaked and shifted under our boots and chairs as we took our seats.

“Very unusual that nobody greeted us at the door and nobody to take coats and hats?” Yulia commented slightly annoyed.

“It’s not a ball tonight. It’s a debate.” I said carefully as she was a bit fragile still.

Yulia gave me an annoyed look that foreigners usually get when they don’t know what they’re talking about.

“It’s still the city administration office,” she insisted.

“And so it is,” I said folding my arms and settling into my chair and taking in the scene.

The Dean had spotted me and gave me a wave over the crowd from the raised podium, acknowledging that I had arrived. I didn’t feel free to introduce Yulia as she hadn’t been invited and was there as the press incognito. Luckily, he didn’t come over to great us.

“That’s it? He’s just going to wave and not shake hands?” Yulia huffed again.

“He’s busy, can’t you see that?” I said defensively.

“He should at least shake your hand. He invited us,” she pouted.

“What’s the problem, Yulia. Do you not want to stay?” I asked trying to feel out her mood. She didn’t reply but looked straight ahead ignoring my question.

I rolled my eyes while looking away. I was thrilled just to have been invited and was satisfied to be able to watch the organisation of a new party, in a region of the country that had top talent and was becoming a case study for restructuring and reform. Forget the greetings and handshakes; politics was in the air! For all we knew the tent could come down tonight in a proper brawl with fists and chairs being thrown.